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I don't remember how long I stood there; craning my neck towards the heavens in a futile attempt to discern where the building stopped and the atmosphere began. This was it, I thought, the beginning of the rest of my life. Twenty-two years all led up to this point. And all I could do was stare at the sky like a moron. Two weeks ago, I was just another English major wasting his time schlepping around Boston looking for something more intellectually stimulating than McDonald's. I came home every night to a filthy loft apartment smelling of French fries and chicken nuggets. When I submitted a résumé here, I thought it was a pipe dream, something to stave off depression for a couple of months before I finally concluded that they would never call. I had never been happier about being wrong in my short life. As soon as I got the job, I immediately sped over to McDonald's and informed my manager I quit. I then informed the customers that said manager liked to jerk off into the happy meals. It was a retribution for every day off they had called me in, for every customer that treated me like trash, every kid that threw their lunch at the wall, and every other horrendous, degrading activity I had been subjected to during my four month employment. As I left the parking lot for the last time, I lit a cigarette and smiled. I was now a writer
Twelfth floor. The dream job I've been yapping about was for a new music magazine called Demolition. At first, it sounded like some greasy little booklet for "metal heads" that had no clue who Judas Priest was and thought Korn was tough. To my surprise, though, the founder was quite knowledgeable about music, as Funhouse blared from speaker during the entire duration of the interview. Needless to say, I was impressed. Now, however, all the Iggy Pop in the world couldn't help me now. I was as nervous as a kindergartener on his first day. My palms were sweaty, my knees were knocking together, and my mouth and dried up somewhere between the fifth and sixth floor. I tepidly worked my way over to the receptionist seated behind the glass partition, her blue and green striped hair adding a much needed vibe of color to the otherwise Spartan waiting room. I knocked twice, eliciting her attention from that day's crossword.
"Hi, Jack Logan. I'm the new-" The receptionist cut me off.
"They're expecting you. Go on in." She buzzed me in, returning her concentration to the crossword as quickly as she had lifted it. I inhaled deeply, and then moved forward through the unlocked door, ready to begin my new career as a writer.
The office floor that lay beyond was, to say the least, a letdown. I had expected a bustling nerve center of the latest occurrences in the wide world of music. A couple disheveled individuals shuffling about and one computer was a far cry from that vision. I was about to check and make sure this was the right office when the magazine's founder, Dean Hopkins, emerged from his office to greet me.
"Ian, good to see you. We've read your writing samples, we checked out your references, everything, and we're really excited to have you aboard. Come with me, your office is this way." My office. I'll never get used to that. It sounded so foreign. I repeated the phrase over in my head, but it still didn't fit. Dean showed me into...my office. There was a sizable dark wood desk, an office surplus chair... and nothing else. The room wasn't exactly gigantic, though. As a matter of fact, I had my suspicions it was just a coat closet with a window
"Feel free to fix the place up however you want. We put in an order for laptops, but they've still got a day to come in. Now come on, I want you to meet the rest of the staff." I left my coat and notebook in my office and followed Dean, wondering in my head why he thought I needed an office in the first place.
After I had been properly introduced to everyone, Dean led me into his office and told me to have a seat. Seating himself on the opposite side, he handed me a concert ticket and a laminated badge clipped to a lanyard. I looked down at the ticket in an inwardly giddy anticipation, eager to see who my first interview would be with. I tried not to let my disappointment show when I silently read the name: Mandy Moore. My ex-girlfriend had been into her music, but I had never been too impressed with her songs. They never sounded all that interesting, and when you listened to her voice, it sounded like she wasn't all that interested either. Whatever the case was, I had my assignment, so I listened as Dean gave me my instructions.
"The concert starts at eight, but it's down in Foxboro, so you should get going now. Ninety-five's bound to be backed up, there's construction from here to Providence. Once you're at the venue, show your badge to whoever checks your ticket, you'll be fine from there." I rose from my seat, ready to leave, when Dean spoke up again.
"Oh, one more thing. Save any gas or food receipts. You get reimbursed for those."
"Great."
With that, I was out of the office, heading toward the parking garage, twirling the keys around my forefinger like a teenager strutting towards their first car. I tossed the notebook in the back, lit a Marlboro and sped out of the parking garage, Electric Six blasting out of the stereo. Granted, a thirteen-year old Honda Accord that is made up of none of the original parts can't "blast" anything particularly well, but Electric Six sounds good coming out of anything.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, I was beginning to wonder if Dean was psychic. Road crews were scattered quite liberally across ninety-five replacing asphalt, apparently one granule at a time. And to make the trip complete, I was running low on gas. I was debating turning off and asking for directions at a gas station, but I knew if there weren't any back roads, I'd most likely be late for my first interview, and that wouldn't look too great. I stared at the needle teetering near empty for a few minutes, then at the exit sign. Then I noticed I was down to two cigarettes. That sealed it. I signaled and slowly crawled to the strangely empty off-ramp.
The gas station was something that belonged in a Hitchcock movie. Peeling paint, broken windows, and rusted pipes. Exposed wires hung from almost every light fixture. I was hoping this wasn't an omen of things to come. I didn't even want to think about what the bathroom looked like. As I walked in to pay for the gas, I was just praying the clerk wasn't a grown-up version of the banjo-playing kid from Deliverance. The electronic chime went off loudly, alerting everyone to my new presence in their midst. The place was covered in the same paneling my father had put up in the living room when I was younger. Age had not improved it in any way; in fact, I think it looked worse now. The difference was that my father removed the paneling once he realized his mistake, which was about fifteen minutes after he finished. No such luck here; the paneling was only outshone by the two obviously fake deer heads that hung over the check out counter. The whole thing looked like a bad joke that took on a life of its own. I just hoped they knew a way to Foxboro that didn't involve Ninety-Five. I handed the clerk a twenty.
"That's for the gas. Do you know a good way to Foxboro?" The clerk stared at me for longer than felt comfortable, chewing on a toothpick.
"Sure do. Go down this road 'til ya hit an antique store. You'll know when ya get there cuz there'll be a cow on top of the barn. Anyway, take a left and go a couple a miles 'til ya see a Shaw's. Take a right and follow the signs."
"Thanks." I returned to my car and hit the gas, repeating the clerk's directions over in my head, hoping they actually did lead to Foxboro and not Canada.
Toothpick guy was right. I got to the venue with an hour to spare. I immediately went in, as I was still plagued with a million thoughts of how this could go wrong and I'd lose my new dream job. Checking in was easy; I found the press entrance with no trouble at all. I did think the frisking and questioning was a tad extreme, but I wasn't my decision, so I put up with it. After I was deemed safe to enter, a bodyguard the size of a redwood led me backstage and directed me to where the press would view the show and informed me of the rules, mostly common sense stuff.
"Ms. Moore will be answering questions after the concert. If you require further assistance, please contact me or one of my fellow protection agents." Lurch rattled this off the way a recording would. "Feel free to exit this area at any time, but keep in mind if you should desire reentry, you will be subject to search. Any contraband found on your person will be seized and you will be forcibly removed form the premises. Food, drinking, and smoking are allowed solely in designated areas backstage." Answering machine. We'll get back to you. "At this time, do you have any questions?"
"No, I'll be fine. Thank you." Lurch spun on his heels and marched off, almost like a wind-up soldier. I was left by a smoking area, so I sat down and had one, which was when I remembered I should have picked up a pack at the gas station. I grimaced into the pack. I had better get my mind in gear quick or I was about to go nowhere fast. I seemed to be the only one idle, as I lost count of the number of people rushing past me. I considered checking out the opening act, but I could hear them fine from where I was, and I was none too interested in moving any closer to the din emanating from the speakers. I later found out it was a band calling themselves Life Savers, a name most ironic because listening to them caused me to lose any will to live. I knew I wasn't the only one who felt that way, because I heard more boos than cheers. The only I can possibly think to describe it is Pat Boone doing a rap album, only without the rebelliousness that Boone brings to music. I know I shouldn't be complaining on the same night I landed my dream job, the job I had worked for years to get, but this was really horrendous music. Finally tired of it, I decided to see if the food was anywhere near affordable.
